Greg knew he wasn’t smart. He didn’t even want to be. It seemed like so much work. He’d struggled with a governess who told him not to worry about it when he struggled with reading and maths. She’d touched her forearm meaningfully and told him his father and someone else would make sure he had a place in the world. Greg knew what that meant. He’d traced over the lines of his father’s faded Mark since he could walk. He’d coloured in the spaces until it has been a rainbow as his father laughed and ruffled his hair.